


Anthea's Apartment

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty’s web is a vast one.  Sherlock grows tired, weak, and struggles to complete his task.  On the run one night in Toronto, he notices a name on an apartment label, “Anthea”.  He expects Anthea, who he finds though is totally unexpected. </p>
<p>Rated M for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a small prompt from MsAether one night when she mentioned seeing the name "Anthea" on an apartment listing one day in Toronto. It was supposed to be a short fic that has grown into a series. I hope you enjoy.

He watched the tall pale figure stumble from an abandoned warehouse on the surveillance footage.  There was blood trickling from his lip and a bruise blooming below his left eye.  He corrected for an obvious limp, and held his hand loosely to his chest.  He looked haggard and worn, like the next fight might be his last as Sherlock Holmes retreated to his current dingy flat in Ottawa.  
  
The well dressed man turned to his companions sitting in the room with him, a blonde man and brunette woman.  “I think it’s time, don’t you?”  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
It had been two years, four months, one week, and five days (not that he was counting) since Sherlock had said “Goodbye, John” and leapt off the roof at Barts.  The only contact he’d had with anyone from his previous life was when Molly had helped him carry out his plan.  He’d suspected Mycroft knew what he was up to, but had refused to contact him.  This wasn’t about Mycroft.  He had no business sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.  This was Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty’s game.  One he intended to win.   He had tracked down and eliminated Moriarty’s underlings in Europe and Asia.  Now he was working his way through Canada, then into the US.  
  
Sherlock Holmes was tired and sore, getting slower in his reaction times, but he couldn’t let that stop him.  If he slowed down Moriarty would win, if he let even one of Moriarty’s people slip through his fingers, and he WOULD not let that happen.  He had taken many precautions, planned dozens of different ways that the web might unravel, always anticipated the unknown.  But there was one thing he hadn’t counted on.  He couldn’t have realized just how much he would miss John Watson.  There would be times he’d find himself talking to John, only to turn and find he wasn’t there.  He missed hearing what John’s own theories might be about where someone might turn up next, even if those theories would probably be wrong.  John’s insights and questions had, on occasion, helped Sherlock’s mind skip a step or two in the past, to reach a conclusion much faster than Sherlock would have alone.  He just missed the comforting presence of John, to know that John had his back, the laughter, the smiles, his smell, even the “bit not good’s”.  All the things that made John...John.  John was his barometer, his compass.  If Sherlock Holmes had a “true North”, directing him ever onward, it was John.  He cared about Lestrade as a friend, he loved Mrs. Hudson like she was his own mother, but John...there was no one who compared to him.  He was ready for this to be over so he could go home to John.  
  
He let himself into his flat to clean and tend to his wounds, wishing desperately his doctor was here to help.  Tonight he would leave Ottawa, one step closer to having John at his side again.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
It had been two years, five months, two weeks, and one day since that day he’d broken his heart and jumped.  He was in Toronto now.  Once he was done here, he could head into the US to follow the final strands of the web.    
  
Sherlock took a deep breath, silently exhaling, and winced at the ache of a still healing cracked rib.  He stood in the shadows monitoring the old boathouse, watching the figures move behind the smudged glass.  There were three, why were there three? The thug he was after was supposed to be alone tonight.  His information had been wrong!  He cursed himself.  He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, and he couldn’t afford to let this particular gang lord get away.  If Sherlock could take him down, the whole tangled web in Toronto would crumble from the inside out.  He’d put too much time in here, and couldn’t stay much longer for risk of being found out.  Taking as deep a breath as he could, Sherlock slipped through the shadows into the boathouse, risking much but too desperate to change his plans.  
  
To Sherlock it seemed like forever, but in reality it was only about fifteen minutes later that he stumbled out of the warehouse wheezing and running. Above his left eye a gash dripped blood, on his chin and around his throat nasty bruises bloomed, and his cracked rib was most likely cracked worse, if not broken with a new gash on top of it all. He left behind him two dead bodies, neither of which were who he went in to eliminate in the first place.  The gang lord had managed to get away thanks to the sacrifices of his lackeys. Thankfully he hadn’t been recognized as ‘Sherlock Holmes’, but he was no longer safe in Toronto.  He hurried to make his way to the dirty hotel room he’d been living out of the past month.  As he stumbled past a set of apartment buildings, he stopped and backtracked.  Something, a name, had caught his eye.  One, single, solitary name; no last name given, just “Anthea”.  
  
“Surely not! Oh, but of course!” he growled under his breath.  Mycroft had eyes everywhere!  He must know where Sherlock was.  And, now, after everything, including tonight’s failure Sherlock was desperate.  If he wanted to protect John, to make it back to him alive, he needed Mycroft’s help to do so, as appalling as the thought was.  So he swallowed his pride and rang the buzzer next to the name.  
  
A woman’s voice answered, “Hullo?”  
  
“Call him!” Sherlock blurted out, roughly.  
  
“I’m sorry, who?  Who are you?” came the confused reply.  
  
“Don’t play dumb with me,” he answered harshly, “I know it’s you!”  There was a long pause.  
  
He held his breath, he couldn’t be mistaken.  How many Anthea’s could there be?  Especially considering her name wasn’t even Anthea.  “Please!” he muttered under his breath as he buzzed her again, desperately hoping she’d hear him.  He began looking around, expecting gang reinforcements to show up any minute.  
  
Finally, “He knows you’re here and he’s willing to help you, but you **will** owe him.”  
  
“FINE!  Just please don’t let him tell John anything.  John can’t know!  Can I please come in?  Mycroft and I need to talk.  I want to come home,” his voice cracked on the last word.  Home was no longer a place, but a person.  
  
She buzzed him in, and as he limped up the stairs, Sherlock wondered what favor Mycroft might call in at a later date.  
  
He turned to Anthea when she shut the door behind him, “Call him!  I need to speak with him immediately!”  
  
A voice spoke from the dark of the living area, “Dear brother, I’m afraid I’m unable to take your call at the moment.  Besides, I think this is a conversation best had in person, don’t you?”  
  
Mycroft, flicked on the lamp illuminating the room and the last thing Sherlock saw and heard before he passed out was John saying, “Yes. Don’t you think so, Sherlock?”


	2. Unbelievable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say, time heals all wounds, but does it really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta, oldamongdreams and to kriskenshin for doc sitting with me. I struggled and fought with these characterization of John and Sherlock. These two ladies reminded me to let the boys be who they're going to be this time around. Enjoy!

“Aw, Hell!” uttered John as he rushed to check on Sherlock.  He was familiar with the feeling, after all.  He’d almost blacked out himself when he realized Sherlock was still alive.  But he hadn’t been running around the ends of the earth trying to take out Moriarty’s web, he hadn’t just escaped with his life from what John could only assume was Sherlock’s latest target, and he sure as hell didn’t look like death warmed over on the day the pieces fell into place for him.  On that particular day, once he was finished yelling and throwing things at his walls and after he had a heated conversation with a very teary and apologetic Molly, he calmly walked into the Diogenes Club, straight to Mycroft Holmes, and before anyone could stop him yanked the man to into the most private room he could find and threw him against the wall.  “I want to see the tapes.  All of them,” he demanded.  Any other person besides a Holmes would have thought him mad, but Mycroft simply adjusted his tie and nodded, as if he’d been waiting for John to come to him.  That was the day two weeks ago they saw Sherlock stumble out of the warehouse in Ottawa.  It was the last surveillance footage they had.  It had taken them this long to set up a plan, find him again, and set up base camp in Toronto.  He had been preparing to go after him tonight, but Sherlock found them first.  
  
John checked all of Sherlock’s superficial wounds. None were life threatening, and he had at least one cracked rib, if not more.  His breathing was short and he was obviously in pain.  “Bring me the kit!” he barked at Anthea.  They had planned ahead, packing medical necessities, knowing that Sherlock would need at least basic medical care.  He pulled out the smelling salts, breaking open the small pouch that held the ammonia, and waved it under Sherlock’s nose.  Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, pale grey-green eyes latched onto him, “John!” Sherlock sobbed as he threw his arms around John.  
  
“I’m here, you unbelievable bastard, I’m here.” John replied affectionately, hugging him back.  Sherlock clung tighter to John.  John looked up, ”You two, get out!” he growled, “I can handle it from here.  I’ll call if I need you.”  Mycroft huffed but nodded in agreement and they left the room.  John turned his attention back to Sherlock.  “Now let’s sit you up right.  I need to treat those wounds.  And don’t you think for a second you get out of the punch I deserve to give you after all you’ve put me through.”  John smiled warmly.  Molly had explained why Sherlock had needed to do what he’d done, but that didn’t mean John could forgive him just yet.  But there was something in the way Sherlock had said his name, the way he’d looked and clung to him in that moment, that made John take a large step in that direction.

* * *

  
  
What was John doing here?  Sherlock’s thoughts raced.  Mycroft wouldn’t have told John, would he?  No, if Mycroft had told John, John would have demanded to be brought along, would have demanded to be part of this, wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, and that wasn’t how Mycroft worked.  Mycroft worked in code, in secrecy.  And he wouldn’t have wanted the complications that involving John would bring.  That meant...John had figured it out!  Clever, clever John!  And, he was here, all doctor at the moment, stitching the gash over Sherlock’s eye.  He deserved the verbal lashing John was giving him, every word, but all he cared about right now was that John was here.  He wasn’t going to leave.  He wouldn’t be here, not even Mycroft could force him to come, if he was so angry at Sherlock that he couldn’t forgive him.  Oh, he hadn’t quite yet, but he would one day, Sherlock was sure of it.  John poked him. “Hey! Sherlock! Shirt off. Now!” John chided, exasperated.  Obviously it wasn’t his first time asking.  
  
“Wha-Why?” Sherlock sputtered.  
  
“Gash in your side.  No muscle damage as far as I could tell, but it definitely needs to be cleaned and stitched.  You’re going to have a nice set of battle wounds when we’re done,” said John, shaking his head.  Sherlock must really need to rest and recover if he’d missed that.    
  
Sherlock slowly unbuttoned and peeled off his shirt, and for one of the few times in his life, he was hesitant. Tonight was not the first night he’d been injured, and those other times he didn’t have a doctor to stitch and clean the wounds.  John would see the scars, the badly stitched pink lines still healing, the graze of a bullet that had he been one inch to the left would have taken a kidney, the cigarette burns from the time he’d allowed himself to be caught and tortured, and a myriad of other wounds.  His back and chest were no longer the smooth unmarred tracts of skin they’d once been.  Battle wounds, John had said.  He had no idea what sort of battle wounds Sherlock carried with him.  
  
John watched each scar reveal itself as Sherlock slowly took off his shirt.  He couldn’t tell if it was from the pain or shame, possibly a mixture of both, that caused the slow reveal of the new landscape of Sherlock’s skin.  “Jesus, ‘Lock,” he exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, “What have they done to you?  What have you been through?”  He wanted to check them out, to make sure the wounds that were still healing weren’t infected and looking to see what he could do to help that process.  Instead he turned his attention to the fresh gash along Sherlock’s rib cage. “This is going to sting,” he apologized as he began the cleaning, stitching, and dressing process.  
  
Sherlock sat in silence, barely wincing as he went into John’s room of his Mind Palace. “ ‘Lock”, John had called him. A nickname.  The only people in John’s life who had nicknames were those who meant the most to him: Bill, Mike, Greg, Harry. Not Mycroft, not Donovan, not even any of the long ago girlfriends were ever given a nickname.  Did John even know he did it?  Probably not.  Sherlock focused on that one syllable and held onto it.  
  
John finished covering the stitched gash and turned his attention to Sherlock’s old and still healing wounds.  His fingers traced over the pink marks, investigating in his own fashion.  As a doctor he knew what each and every one of those cuts, burns, and wounds would have done, would have felt like.  How had Sherlock kept going?  He could feel the still knitting bones, the scars in the muscle tissue below the skin.  Some of these could have, should have killed him!  And there was enough damage done, that he should have been laid out for weeks.  Why had he tried to do this alone?  Idiot!  He shook his head.  Looking at Sherlock, looking into Sherlock’s eyes hurt him.  Seeing his wounds, wounds he could have perhaps prevented had he been there, hurt him. Yet, here he was, the man he thought dead, his best friend, physically alive here in front of him.  But John knew Sherlock better than anyone else.  And something had changed in him in the last two and a half years.  This Sherlock was different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI here: John didn't bind Sherlock's ribs because that has proven to be worse for broken and cracked ribs than previously thought. It can lead to pneumonia and we most assuredly don't want that.


	3. Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns a few things about John and possibly himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my beta, oldamongdreams and to kriskenshin for sitting with me in the doc while I wrote this, offering a swift kick of encouragement every now and then.

John had thought he’d needed Sherlock. Sherlock, the man who gave him his life back, the man who had given it meaning again, his best friend. How dark and lonely he had been, when Sherlock jumped off of that roof; it was if the light and excitement had gone out of everything. The colors around him were muted. It seemed that for everyone else the colors were just as vibrant, just as bright, that life continued to move on for them. And he hated all of it. His life came to a sudden stop when Sherlock had jumped. The only place where he saw color, where he saw red, was when the word “FAKE” entered his realm. So, John had taken it upon himself to clear Sherlock’s name. He started the “I believe in Sherlock Holmes” movement. It was the only thing he’d been able to do that gave him a purpose. It wasn’t moving forward, but it was the only thing that kept him from being stagnant. He befriended and employed Sherlock’s former connections in the homeless network, always seeking ways to discredit Moriarty and gain more information on Moriarty’s network. And while working with the homeless network to clear Sherlock’s name, John started to put the pieces together until the day it all fell into place. But, now, John wasn’t sure who needed who more. Throughout the cleaning, stitching, and dressing of his wounds the only time Sherlock had let go of John’s jacket was when he took his shirt off. Sherlock’s eyes followed John the whole time, and even when he’d gone deep into thought, they never left John’s face. Strange thing was, Sherlock didn’t seem to notice either thing.

  
Sherlock came out of his Mind Palace to find a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and John kneeling in front of him, waiting. “Welcome back, ‘Lock,” was all he said. Sherlock took one look into those deep blue eyes and closed his own. There was so much hurt and anger there, but also the way they crinkled when he said “Welcome back” that told Sherlock everything would be okay, eventually.

Holding his head in his hands he barely managed to get out, “I’m sorry, John,” as tears ran down his nose. Dammit! This was not how he’d envisioned returning to John. Hell! John had found him first and that was most assuredly not part of the plan.

“I know, and someday we’ll need to have it out. And when that day happens you’ll have to listen to what you put me through, but I don’t think today’s that day. We’ve been through enough tonight as it is,” John sighed. “Now, it’s time to fill the three of us in so we can figure out what to do from here.”

Sherlock’s hand tightened on John’s wrist, “Wait, please. Don’t let him in here, not yet.” Mycroft had seen him blackout and then, upon waking, grab onto John. The last thing Sherlock needed was to give Mycroft more emotional ammunition. John nodded.

“There’s a fresh change of clothes in the bag on the couch. We’d barely had time to get settled ourselves when you buzzed Anthea. I’ll leave you to change.” And John walked out of the room.

He found Mycroft and Anthea at the dining table of all places. Both seemed out of their element, but the agreement he’d worked out with Mycroft ensured that John was the one calling the shots here. This was his element, not Mycroft’s.

Mycroft wanted his help and John wanted to help Sherlock. It hadn’t taken much to remind Mycroft of John’s military history and training. Not that he’d needed reminding, but the process had been so much fun. John grinned at the memory. Considering John hadn’t been able to take out his initial anger on Sherlock, proving himself capable against Mycroft’s lackeys had been an acceptable substitute at the time. This wasn’t politics, this was street warfare. This was John’s area of expertise. He’d led his men safely through the dangerous streets of Afghanistan. Mycroft had seen enough of the footage to know that John’s tactical military training would be useful, not just his skill with a gun.

“He’ll be out after he’s changed. I suggest you keep the snide remarks to yourself,” he said pointing his finger sharply at Mycroft. “He’s not the same Sherlock you knew before. And so help me, if you break him further, I will break you.” Mycroft barely flinched. Anthea was too absorbed in her phone to pay him much notice. Then he set about to make the tea.

  
Sherlock came out of the living area looking every bit the haughty detective. “Mycroft. Anthea,” he sneered. He took his place at the table, where John had set his tea along with a couple of paracetamol for the pain his ribs were causing. John was sitting, his hands wrapped around his mug, waiting. “Fill us in, Sherlock,” he said bluntly. The other two sat silently.

So it wasn’t ‘Lock when it was business. He could live with that. Glancing at the people sitting at the table, it was obvious John was taking the lead. Odd. Shaking his head, Sherlock took a deep breath and proceeded to fill them in about what had happened tonight and where he planned to go next. John and Mycroft listened as Anthea took notes. When he was done, Sherlock saw Mycroft and John exchange looks.

“What? What was that look about?” Realization dawned on him “NO! You are not both suggesting what I think you are about to!” As glad as he was to see John, as much as he wanted to be home, just be with John, Sherlock wasn’t about to let John endanger himself. He’d done all this for John, and if John got hurt or killed while chasing down Moriarty’s web, it would all be in vain.

“Sherlock, this isn’t an option,” replied Mycroft, “Not if you want my help, and you know you do. I have access to information you do not, I can create identities for you at the drop of a hat, and I can make you disappear easily. I can help you end this faster than if you were to continue on alone. The favor you owe me? I am now calling it in. John comes with you until there is nothing left of this web.”

Sherlock turned to John to plead his case, but John held up his hand, “This is not an option, Sherlock. I lost you once and I’ll be damned if I lose you again. You tell me I can’t come, you try to disappear on me, I will hunt you down and find you. I did it once, I can do it again. And if you make me do that, I won’t hold back, Sherlock, I won’t. I don’t care how badly you’re injured, I will beat some sense into you.” John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and asked, “Do you remember who I am? What I’ve done for you? What I’m capable of? I am **not** weak. I am **not** a liability. People always underestimate me. Don’t you **even** begin to be one of them.” John’s voice had slowly been escalating, the anger and hurt starting to show through his resolve.

Sherlock lept up, wincing, and paced the floor. Wisely, the other three remained silent. He knew John and Mycroft (damn him!) had a point. But it was easier for one person to hide, one person to take this on, and better for one person to die than two. Especially if one of the two was John. _Stop it!_ he thought. He was letting his emotions get in the way. He needed someone else, it was true. Look at tonight, he had miscalculated and paid a price for it. If John been there, that miscalculation might not have mattered.

“Fine!” He agreed angrily. “Where do we go from here?” This time he listened as John and Mycroft laid out their ideas, disagreeing most of the time, acceding others. Before the night was over the three had formulated a plan to move forward.

Mycroft stood up, brushed off his jacket, and picked up his ever present umbrella, “Anthea and I will be on our way. Stay here as long as you need, I’ve ensured that it will remain secure and safe, so long as neither of you leave this,” he looked around disdainfully, “apartment as they call it here. Call the number on the card next to phone if you need anything in the meantime. Don’t try to go after the gang lord in the near future, Sherlock. He’ll have gone underground after you botched up the job.” And with that, they walked out the door, leaving John alone with a fuming Sherlock.

  
“Take the main bedroom, ‘Lock. Grab the bag we packed for you and get some rest. I’ll clean up in here,” John sighed wearily. “You’re safe for now. If you want to take down Moriarty’s web, you need to recover, and that includes rest. Doctor’s orders,” he chuckled.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock said meekly as he picked up the bag and walked down the hall to the shared bathroom.

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. No argument from Sherlock, no “I don’t need to sleep.” That alone was enough to prove to him Sherlock had changed. He set about clearing cups and plates from the table. Best not to disturb the papers, maps, and plans they’d made.

He heard the sink running and then Sherlock shuffling into the bedroom. John picked up his own bag and deposited it into the other bedroom before going into check on Sherlock. The tired man had collapsed on his bed, shoes and clothes still on. John smiled, “Are you even going to take your shoes off?”

“Nmmph,” came Sherlock’s mumbled reply.

“Just like old times,” John laughed as he helped Sherlock out of his shoes and tucked the younger man into bed. “Go to sleep. I’ll be in the next room if you need me, ‘Lock.” As he closed the door, he swore he heard Sherlock say, “I’ll always need you, John.”


	4. Turmoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John's emotions are all over the place and Sherlock tries to get things back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. I was sick last weekend and had a few things come up that kept me from posting during the week. For your patience, Chapter 5 will be posted tomorrow.

To say that John rested well that night would have been a lie.  Every so often, he’d wake up, still finding it hard to believe that Sherlock was sleeping in the next room.  He’d softly pad his way to the door and peek in on Sherlock’s sleeping form.  At some point, he noticed, Sherlock had awoken long enough to be sensible and change into his pajamas. Mrs. Hudson had saved all of Sherlock’s clothes for God knows what reason, but John was glad she had.  He had packed the pajamas Sherlock wore most often, his grey t-shirt and blue bottoms.   It wasn’t sensible, but John hadn’t cared at the time.  Certain things he’d packed didn’t make sense, like the small case that had been hidden in the living area.  They’d have to leave it behind for Mycroft’s men to pick up, but John had a feeling Sherlock might need his violin, even if for a small moment.  When Sherlock had been stressed, stuck, or just in an overall mood, playing his violin had helped him focus, had been a comfort.  And, that’s why he’d packed that particular set of pajamas, the dressing gown, and the violin.  Sherlock needed comfort, needed familiarity, whether the git knew it or not.  
  
Sherlock, on the other hand, had the best night’s sleep since he’d jumped.  The comfort of knowing that John was just in the other room, knowing that he cared, brought a sense of comfort and safeness.  Sherlock woke only once, and upon realizing he was still in the first set of nice clothes he’d had in Canada, he roused himself enough to change into the old comfortable items John had thought to pack.  They still smelled like him, like the flat.  Sherlock had sighed as he settled himself under the duvet.  He’d get up as soon as the sun rose, he told himself.  
  
Except that he didn’t.  When he finally woke the next day, the clock read a startling 2:00pm.  He threw the blue dressing gown on and shuffled down the hall, ruffling his fingers through his hair.  “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked John through a yawn.  
  
“That reason right there,” John grinned,  pointing at Sherlock’s yawn.  He was sitting on the couch, his gun laid out before him while he cleaned it.  “You need your rest, ‘Lock.  And food.”  John got up and headed to the kitchen.  “Either clean off the table or have a seat in here. Your choice, but you are going to eat.”  
  
Sherlock wandered over to the dining table and looked over the papers John had left spread out from the night before.  He began to sort and stack them. Diagrams and maps into one pile, files into another, information he and Mycroft had gathered separately had their own stack, and the new identities and passports for him and John were relegated to the living area.  He’d need to study those and ensure he knew them inside and out to avoid slip ups.  When John came in with Sherlock’s late breakfast of toast, eggs, and coffee, Sherlock was camped at the table looking through the files Mycroft had left.  John set the food in front of him and walked back towards the living area.  “John?  Aren’t you going to eat?”   Something was wrong.  John looked tense.  Had he misinterpreted what he saw last night?  Was John so angry, he couldn’t eat a simple meal with him?  
  
“I ate earlier.  I should go over these anyways, once I get the gun back together.” John waved his hand over the identities and passports, “Eat, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock ate in silence.  He knew he’d done enough damage to their friendship (relationship?) as it was. Sherlock gathered that if he pushed John to much he would find John’s breaking point, and there would be no return after that.  Sherlock realized he was walking a fine line.  
  
John concentrated on cleaning and oiling his gun.  It had become a familiar habit, something to focus on during his time in the war and it wasn’t one he’d let slip.  It was a meditation of sorts.  When he did this task, it was just him and the cold, grey gunmetal, the heady scent of the oil, the softness of the cloth, over and over again until the gun was back together and perfect.  He held the gun out, sighting it down his arm.  
  
“If I’m not allowed to shoot holes in walls, then neither are you,” he heard the deep baritone from the kitchen table.  
  
“Too late. That face now has a bullet-hole frown,” John replied tersely.  
  
Sherlock sat there, shocked.  John had shot the wall in the flat!    
  
“Jesus, Sherlock.  Don’t look at me like that.  ‘The wall had it coming’.  A person can only stare at a yellow smiley face for so long before it starts to mock him.  Pick your jaw off the floor.  Neither of us are the same person we were before you...before you jumped off the damn roof!”  John’s normally calm voice had escalated to just above a yell and he caught himself.  “I am not doing this....I am not doing this right now.  You’re here, you’re alive, and you need to recover.  Me yelling at you won’t help that process.”  He inhaled sharply.  “I’m going to take a shower.  I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the new identities right now anyway.”  And with that he stormed off to the bathroom.  
  
Sherlock sat there, stunned.  Yes, John had blown up at him before, but this felt different.  Apparently John was walking his own fine line.  Sherlock finished his meal, and after he heard the shower cut off he started to clean the dishes.  If he was going to get back in John’s good graces, he’d have to start somewhere and doing the dishes seemed as good a place as any.  
  
John stood fuming in the shower.  He was furious and he couldn’t even pinpoint the when or why.  He’d been fine while Sherlock had been sleeping, had even been okay when the sleepy man walked gingerly into the living area, but seeing Sherlock working on sorting the papers on the table had scraped a nerve.  Here was Sherlock, living breathing, going about like he’d done nothing wrong, and then to joke like everything was fine!  What was the bastard even thinking?  That now that they were together again, partners in crime as it were, everything would fall back into place?  That everything would be normal?  Nothing could be normal again!  Not after what he’d been through.  Not after what they’d both been through.  He wasn’t going to let Sherlock push himself, tear open wounds, not allow bones to knit.  He and Sherlock both were broken in more ways than just the physical wounds Sherlock had.  As a doctor, he could only mend the physical, but maybe he and Sherlock could help mend the other deeper wounds together.  All these thoughts played out through John’s head as he showered.  He could have stood there for ages, knowing the fl...apartment (He was in Canada now, remember?) had a tankless hot water heater, but he’d never been one to run from a fight, just stage a tactical retreat.  He got out, towelled off, wrapped said towel around his waist, and went to his room to dress.

* * *

  
  
John walked into the kitchen to find the dishes, rinsed, and washing in the dishwasher.  He couldn’t believe his eyes. Sherlock had done the dishes!  He never, ever did dishes.  John was surprised Sherlock even knew what a dishwasher was for, experiments aside.  He looked around for the detective, and found him going over the IDs in the living area.   
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Hi, John.”  
  
John sighed.  He needed to look at the stitches to make sure they were healing properly and redressed the wounds.  “Alright, let me see.”  Sherlock gave him one of his classic “whatever-do-you-mean-John” looks.  “I need to check your stitches, change the dressing, and check your ribs.  You can sit on the floor again like last night, or you can plant your arse in a dining chair.  I’d prefer it if you picked the chair, but it’s your choice.  Now move it!”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock snarked back and mock marched to the chair.  
  
“That’s ‘Yes, Sir, Captain, Sir’ to you Cadet,” John replied back, the very picture of a military man, excepting the slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.   
  
They sat in silence as John redressed the wounds and tested the ribs again.  “It’s hard to say how many you’ve injured without an x-ray, but there’s at least one if not two that are cracked.  Looks like we’ll be cooped up here a couple of weeks at the very least.”  Sherlock huffed in indignation.  “Don’t go getting it in your head, Sherlock, that we’re going to be running around tracking that thug down anytime soon.  Besides, it’ll throw him off his game if you wait.  He’s going to be expecting another attack.”  
  
Damn him!  John had a point. Sherlock both loved and hated it when John was clever like this.  John’s intelligence had improved in the last two and half years, either that or Sherlock **had** just underestimated him before.  Then it dawned on him.  John was right.  Sherlock had underestimated the man.  Shame flooded through Sherlock.  He realized now, he shouldn’t have done this alone, he could have had John with him all along.  Yes, he had to jump that day, but he could have gone to John afterwards, told him what he was planning, what he needed John to do, but he had thought too little of his friend.  He had considered him a liability, his greatest weakness.  Never again!  And he had to somehow show John that.


	5. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to apologize, but it doesn't quite go as planned.

Sherlock sat in the chair, watching John clean up the discarded gauze and arranging his medical kit again.  John was nothing if not meticulous when it came to being a doctor.  The neat stitches Sherlock had seen when John pulled back the dressing was evidence of that.  This man, who even when he was emotional, was able to push it down, go into “doctor mode” and do his best to fix the wounds Sherlock had come in with.  Sherlock’s own emotions bubbled to the surface.  
  
“John...”  
  
“Yeah, Sherlock?”  
  
“I truly am sorry.  I won’t say I never meant to hurt you.  But I had to do this,” he started trying to explain.  
  
John’s eyes hardened and he interrupted Sherlock, “Had to do what, Sherlock?  Had to make me watch you jump?  Had to make me watch you die?  Because that’s what you did, Sherlock!  You **forced** me to watch you kill yourself.  Yes, here you sit, alive and ‘well’ in front of me, but for two and a half fucking years, you **were** DEAD, Sherlock.  DEAD!  You didn’t have the balls to tell me you were alive.  I had to figure it out on my own!  And poor Molly!  I scared her half to death, storming into the morgue that day.  You have **NO FUCKING** idea what I’ve been through!  You don’t get to just say you’re sorry and expect everything to be okay.  Sorry isn’t good enough!”  
  
“But, John!  If I hadn’t you’d be dead now.  He had a gunman on each of you!” the fight they’d both been avoided was pushed to the forefront.  
  
“So, you couldn’t tell me after the fact?  You couldn’t come to me, your FRIEND, and tell me you were still alive?  And don’t give me some bullshit about how you needed me to be grieving, because, so help me, if you say that....”  John was pacing now, his voice steadily rising.  
  
Sherlock stood up, following John into the living area.  “But John, you were right.  I considered you a liability, I underestimated you, I had to do something, and the best thing was for you to be...”  Sherlock never got the last word out.  John’s fist connected with Sherlock’s face.     
  
“Fuck you!   You were...are my best friend.  You don’t doubt your best friend, Sherlock!  You trust them!” And John stormed out of the room, slamming his door shut as he retreated, immediately ashamed of punching an injured man, but not quite ready to apologize.  Because, dammit, Sherlock deserved it!    
  


* * *

  
  
Sherlock paced the living area floor.  Where had he gone wrong?  He was just trying to apologize, tell John how sorry he was, and that he’d been wrong to think of John as a liability.  Now, he may have ruined everything.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the rounded edge of a light brown case peeking out from the other side of the entertainment center.  He had missed it last night in all the excitement.  He crossed the floor quickly and pulled the violin case out from it’s hiding spot.  Sitting down, he caressed the lid as he opened it to find his violin.  It had been restrung, and gleamed in the afternoon light.  He lifted it out of the case,  plucked the strings adjusting and tuning as he went.  This must have been John’s doing.  Mycroft would have considered it luxury and left it behind.  John cared enough to bring something Sherlock would have missed so much.   Sherlock rosined his bow, the smell evoking memories of the flat he and John had shared.  Drawing the first note from the beloved instrument, Sherlock lost himself in the music, diving deep into his thoughts.  He didn’t play any particular piece, he just let the music flow.  He was rusty, but muscle memory took over and soon beautiful music filled the apartment.  He poured himself into the music, and the notes took a life of their own.  They grew, a slow trickle at first, slowly flowing around him and down the hall, whispering to John.  The music rose, cascading wistfully, gradually increasing its intensity in waves; crashing, battling with the all too raw emotions.  And then it changed, lilting, floating down, cradling those emotions, wrapping them in comforting melodies.  Slowly the music washed and began cleansing the soul wounds that had been festering in both men.  
  
John listened as the music told him what Sherlock couldn’t.  It spoke of loss and loneliness, of pain and desperation, of pleading and sorrow.  There were dark melodies, so dark they frightened John with what they must have represented.  The music changed, apologetic, full of worry and fear, a plea for understanding.  
  
John sat in his room, tears flowing down his cheeks.  He brushed the tears away, gently stepped out of his room, and padded down the hallway as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb Sherlock and break the spell.  He stood silently in the arch of the living area, drinking in the site of his dear friend. Sherlock looked ethereal with his eyes closed, completely enthralled by his music,and the sunlight bathing him from behind.  As John stood there watching his friend, the man he had presumed dead, the man he thought he’d lost forever, thoughts and emotions started to shift into place.  John had felt jumbled, confused, infuriated.  He stepped back away from his emotions, and as the music continued to flow over him, he let go of his anger and let the music wash it away.  He hadn’t forgiven Sherlock, he didn’t know if ever really could forgive so deep a wound.  But he couldn’t be angry at the man who had gone through hell and back for him.  Looking at Sherlock now, listening to the dark undertones that had filtered into his music, you could tell how hard time had treated him. The emotions that were left behind were no longer bitter, no longer jumbled, and the pieces began to fall into place.  A warmth flooded through the music and John.  He smiled and quietly took a seat, waiting for Sherlock to come back to the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than the others, but more emotionally heavy. I had a lot of difficulty writing this because I wanted it to feel right. And John needed what happened to happen. I tried to add more, but it didn't feel right at this point. Thanks for sticking with me everyone. I am loving writing this story.


	6. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a long overdue talk.

Sherlock slowly came out of his music induced trance.  There were tears falling down his cheeks and when he opened his eyes, he saw his emotions echoed on John’s face.  He returned the instrument to its case before sitting on the sofa opposite John.  “Are we going to be okay?” he asked quietly, afraid of what the answer might be.  
  
John looked at his clasped hands momentarily, inhaling deeply.  He raised his head, looking Sherlock in the eye.  “I know you think you did what you had to do.  I don’t know when or if I’ll be able to forgive you for putting me through that hell.  I’m not saying you’ve had it easy either.  I mean, look at you, “ he said waving his hand at Sherlock.  “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re as badly beaten up emotionally as you are physically.  And don’t give me that look.  You know what I mean, Mr. Literal.  I know you’re sorry, and that means a whole hell of a lot coming from you.  So...as long as you don’t underestimate me, and don’t even think of trying that sort of shit again, yes we will be okay. I don’t threaten the British government for just anyone, you know.”     
  
Sherlock grinned at John.  Oh, how he wished he could have seen that particular “discussion”.  John could be quite intimidating when he put his mind to it.  John grinned back before a thought crossed his mind.  “Promise me you won’t go running off because you think you’re better off on your own, Sherlock.  Please?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer right away, and John understood the hesitation.  “I promise that I will try not to, John.  But I can’t promise that in the heat of a chase or during a moment of clarity on a case I won’t take off.  You know me, you know how I am.  I will do the best I can, but I can’t change who I am deep down.”  
  
“I’m not asking you to.  If that’s all you can promise, that’s what I will take.  But, dammit, try and leave me a note or text me if you’re running off in the middle of the night,” John laughed half-heartedly.    
  
“I’ll try, John.”  Sherlock stood up.  “I think I’m going to go take my turn in the shower now.  It’s been weeks since I’ve had a decent one.”  
  
“Think again,” John chided.  “I thought you had a basic medical knowledge, Sherlock.”  The look on John’s face said it all and Sherlock had to hold back a chuckle.  He’d missed those looks.    
  
“No getting the stitches wet until at least forty-eight hours after the mending.  Sponge baths only until tomorrow night.  I’ll help you tape up around the area to keep from getting them wet, but a shower or bath is out of the question.” He was pure Dr. Watson at the moment.  
  
John went to the kitchen and grabbed his kit, then proceeded to find the cling wrap.  Sherlock gave the clear film a speculative look as John got to work.  “Old trick, ‘Lock,” John laughed.  “I’m taping the cling wrap over the stitches and dressing with medical tape, but it’s not waterproof, so no soaking the area!”  
  
“Aye, Aye, Captain!” Sherlock chuckled and started to walk down the hall.  
  
“Hey, hey, hey now!  I wasn’t Navy!  Get it straight!”  John called after him in a fit of laughter.  “Now go bathe, you bloody wanker!”  
  
Sherlock opened the door to the linen closet.  The towels were located at eye level thankfully, but some idiot had put the flannels on the top shelf.  He reached up and immediately felt a sharp pain in his side.  Dammit!  He tried again and this time the pain caused him to drop the towel he’d been holding.  Sherlock banged his fist against the door frame in frustration.  He hated anything that made him feel weak or less than who he was, and this injury was headed in that direction.    
  
Hearing a noise, John peeked his head around the corner, staring down the hallway.  Sherlock stood at the linen closet, clasping his right arm protectively around his side.  “You okay, ‘Lock?” he asked, concerned.  
  
“I”ll be fine,” Sherlock spit out.  
  
“It’s not wise to lie to your doctor, Sherlock.” John replied darkly.  
  
Sherlock sighed.  “I can’t reach the flannels without a sharp pain, here.”  He pointed at his ribs.  
  
“Take a deep breath, and then try to take a few more every couple of minutes.  It’ll hurt but it’ll help the ribs knit back together.  Now, let me get the flannel for you.”  Sherlock stepped aside and John stood on his toes and reached up, grabbing the closest flannel.  “Um, ‘Lock, I know you like to do things on your way, but I have to ask.  Are you going to be able to bathe and wash your hair on your own?”  John didn’t know why he felt awkward asking Sherlock that.  It wasn’t like John hadn’t given his fair share of sponge baths in his fellowship days.  Sherlock was, for all intents and purposes at this point, his patient.  
  
Sherlock looked down at his friend.  He had thought he might manage on his own, but a chance to be so close to John wasn’t something he would readily pass up.  “Thank you, John, I’d appreciate the help. But do you mind if I keep my pants on?  I think I can manage that area myself.”  
  
“Oh...uh...of course!” John sputtered, blushing.  
  
“Lead on, O Captain, my Captain.” Sherlock joked.  
  
“Quoting Whitman, at me now are you?  I’m not a bloody American, ‘Lock!  I swear you’re making every ‘Captain’ reference you can at me, except the correct one.  Go get ready, your royal pain-ness.”  John grinned and mock bowed, arm extended.  Sherlock grinned, and headed into the bathroom.


	7. Sensory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isn't this cozy? No, wait, it's confusing for John.

Sherlock tenderly stripped down to his pants, while John grabbed the soap and shampoo from one of Sherlock’s still unpacked bags.  John walked in and pointed to the tub.  “Let’s make this easier on both of us.  Just get in the tub and sit down.”  Sherlock bit back a comment about getting his pants wet.  John adjusted the water temperature and removed the detachable shower head before sitting on the edge of the tub, legs on either side of the the taller man.  “I don’t need to tell you this will sting in the open cuts.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Then you needn’t have said anything at all.” John grinned at the back of his friend’s head.  There was still some of the old Sherlock in him after all.   
  
“Head back, let’s get that shaggy mop washed first.”  Sherlock tilted his head and closed his eyes.  John turned the spray on gentle and started to rinse the mess of black curls.  He slowly pulled his fingers through, gently working out the tangles and grime before he reached for the shampoo and put a small amount in Sherlock’s hair.  Slowly, he massaged Sherlock’s scalp, savoring the feel of the wet curls under his fingers, taking an unusually long time to do so.  He sighed to himself, feeling very fortunate to be here with a living, breathing Sherlock.    
  
Sherlock hazarded a peek up at his doctor, only to see a small peaceful smile on John’s lips and a look of contentment on his face.  Sherlock closed his eyes again and smiled to himself.  If he leaned into John’s touch as his hair was rinsed, neither man said anything of it.  
  


* * *

  
  
Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good.  Clean, in HIS clothes, sitting across the dinner table from John, he felt more like himself than he had in ages.  He looked up from the dinner John had fixed to find those indigo eyes staring at him. Sherlock offered him a comforting smile, and John gave him an awkward one in return, before quickly looking back down at his plate.  Interesting.  Sherlock grinned as John picked at his dinner.  
  
John, on the other hand, wasn’t quite sure where to look or what to say.  Bathing Sherlock had been a necessity, but there was a strange sort of intimacy that had come with it.  He felt a certain closeness he hadn’t felt before, and he wasn’t altogether sure what to do with the emotions that he was riding.  It was much easier to be angry at Sherlock; at least he knew what to do with that emotion.  But this felt much different than just being glad his friend was alive, this felt...he didn’t know what words he could use to describe what he was feeling.  Confused.  That was a good one.  He looked up to see Sherlock smiling at him and his insides did a funny sort of jig.  Aw, fuck!  No!  He was too old to have butterflies, especially over his best friend.  This had to be some sort of bodily reaction to the past 24 hours.  Just stress or relief.  Not butterflies, John emphatically decided.  
  
“Done?” he asked, eyebrow raised in Sherlock’s direction.  
  
“Actually, yes,” Sherlock said, standing up.  “You cooked, I’ll clean up.”  
  
John’s jaw dropped.  “You? Sherlock Holmes?  Doing dishes twice in one day?  If I’m dreaming, please don’t wake me up.”  
  
Sherlock laughed.  “Get used to it.  I’ve been on my own for a bit, I think I’ve learned a thing or two about dishwashing at the very least.  Besides, I’d rather do dishes than cook.”  He wrinkled his nose at the last statement.    
  
“Who are you and what have you done with my friend?” John joked, hands stretching over his head as he watched Sherlock clearing the table.  Sherlock glanced over to reply, and immediately swallowed his response.  As John stretched his t-shirt had ridden up, revealing a very tantalizing patch of downy, golden hair trailing down into his jeans.  
  
“I’m still me, I just realized a few things since I’ve been out there,” replied Sherlock as he waved in the direction of the door.  He started scraping and rinsing the dishes.  John thought about asking him what he meant but decided better of it.  Something in Sherlock’s tone warned him off of that topic of conversation.    
  
“Now go watch telly or something while I get these done.  You’re distracting me.”  
  
“Yes, oh Lord of the Dishes, whatever you say,” John mocked him with great affection.  Sherlock just smiled and saluted him.  Soap suds hung on his curls.  John burst out laughing, “I’m distracting you?  Jesus, ‘Lock, you’re a distraction all on your own.”  He tossed a dish towel at Sherlock.  “Dry up will you, I’m going to see what sort of shows these Canadians have to offer.”  
  
Sherlock looked up at the soap suds and grimaced.  He wiped them from his hair and proceeded to finish rinsing and loading the dishes into the dishwasher.  He enjoyed doing the dishes because he had found that the mundane task allowed him to let his mind wander where he wanted it while accomplishing a task.  Dinner had been enlightening to say the least.  John was obviously battling with himself over his feelings towards Sherlock.  This was good.  Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he could encourage those feelings.  But he also remembered John’s outburst from earlier, and knew he couldn’t push John too hard or too fast.  He quickly finished the dishes and went to join John in the living area.    
  
They sat watching the telly.  Much to John’s surprise Sherlock, remarkably, kept silent about the programs.  John sat watching the programs, not really taking them in.  He would occasionally steal glances at his friend.  Just to make sure he wasn’t nodding off John told himself.  But, eventually it was John who started to nod off.  He was awoken with a gentle shake by Sherlock, “I guess it’s my turn to tell someone they need their rest,” Sherlock said with a gentle smile.  “Go get some sleep.”  
  
“I will only if you promise to go to bed too,” John said as he yawned.  
  
“I promise. Here, Doctor, let me help you up and you can make sure I go to my room like a good patient,” Sherlock held out his right hand.  John clasped it and stood up, ignoring the feeling it gave him to touch Sherlock as a friend and not as his patient.  He looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and was uncertain of the warmth he saw there.  His breath caught as his brain struggled to figure out what he was seeing.   Sherlock gave his hand a squeeze and let go as he backed away.  
  
“Go to bed, John.  We both deserve a decent night’s sleep.”  Sherlock padded down the hall to guiding John to his room.   
  
“G’night, ‘Lock,” John mumbled sleepily as he closed the door.  
  
“Good night, my dear John,” Sherlock whispered to the closed door, before turning and heading into his room to honor his promise to John.


	8. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into the dreams and bedrooms of John and Sherlock. This is where it begins to earn the "M" rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to my beta, oldamongdreams, and my doc sitter KrisKenshin. And a huge thank you to all of you for your patience, kind words, and sympathy during my most difficult recent time. I appreciate you all.

John drifted off to sleep easily enough.  Nightmares had been his main dreams for the last two and a half years.  The nights when his sleep were dreamless ones, he counted as blessings.  Tonight, though, he dreamed.  But it wasn’t the horrific nightmare he had come to know and expect.   

****

A soft fog of gentle blues filtered into his dreamscape.   John looked around.  This wasn’t familiar.  No sounds of war, no screams, no smell of dry earth and blood.  Just a pale floating mist, that felt almost silky against his skin.  He looked down and realized his chest was bare.  He slowly turned trying to figure out what was going on, although he could sense there was no reason for alarm.  He heard someone come up behind him, felt the long fingers touch his shoulder, caressing.  John leaned into the touch.  Long arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him close.  Bare skin touched bare skin, and John was slightly surprised to feel a firm, flat chest against his back.  Hands caressed his chest as soft lips kissed the nape of his neck, following the line to his ear.  John reached up to find a handful of familiar curls under his fingers, just as he felt teeth bite into the sensitive area at the base of his neck.  Hard enough to cause him to gasp, but not hard enough to hurt.  It sent a jolt through him and in that moment he didn’t care that the figure behind him wasn’t female, in fact, some small part of him was glad it wasn’t.  And because he knew who those curls belonged to he didn’t question what he was doing; this was just a dream after all.  John turned around and pulled dream-Sherlock’s face to his.  He kissed Sherlock, lips coming together hard and fast.  He clung desperately to Sherlock’s neck, not allowing the man to pull back from him.  He needed to climb into Sherlock, meld deep with him.  Sherlock’s hands pulled him close, sensing John’s need.  Sherlock’s lips parted beneath John’s insistent mouth and John dived in deeper.  He wanted, no, needed to be as close as possible to this man.  He grabbed a fistful of curls and pulled Sherlock’s head back, licking and nipping his way down the pale expanse that was Sherlock’s neck.  He sucked and licked at the Adam’s apple, eliciting the first sounds he’d heard since the dream had started. Sherlock’s deep moans went straight to his groin and John felt himself growing hard.  He moved against Sherlock, one hand still in his curls the other on his hip.  Sherlock responded in kind, moving rhythmically against him, moaning John’s name in his ears.  John found Sherlock’s mouth with his again, claiming, taking, tasting.  They were pressed so close together, it was hard to tell where he ended and Sherlock began.  Sherlock’s long fingers stroked John’s back, pulling him closer, teasing him.  His other hand snaked between them and suddenly John felt his hand as it grabbed his cock stroking him, teasing his head.  John gasped and awoke with a start, only to find his own hand holding his achingly hard cock.  He moaned to himself, desperately wanting more.  John reached for the lube, intending to finish the job dream-Sherlock had started.

****

 

* * *

 

****

Dreams are funny things.  Sherlock rarely dreamed but when he did they were extremely vivid, visceral, and intense.  Tonight he dreamed of John, each experience a different shade of red, orange, or gold.  The way John’s skin felt against his, the friction and heat they created as they lay and thrust on top of one another (scarlet).  The way John tasted and pulsed in his mouth (amber).  The tangy scent of their sweat as they coupled over and over again in his dream (fire).  John’s raw and raspy moans as Sherlock sucked and licked him to orgasm (crystalline).  The look on John’s face as he moved and buried himself deep into Sherlock (sun flares).  Sherlock heard himself begging for more, gasping as John took Sherlock’s cock in his hands.  Groaning he woke, teetering on the edge of orgasm here in the real world.  Something had pulled his attention to the here and now, at the worst possible moment.  Hearing a very distinctive moan from the next room, Sherlock grinned and smiled to himself.  Perhaps it wasn’t such bad timing after all.

****

 

* * *

 

****

John moaned low, a deep quiet sound, as he stroked.  He tried to imagine the beautiful curves of women in his past, but each time he tried the images were replaced by the long lines and breathtaking torso of Sherlock.  Brown eyes became startling grey-green ones, supple lips became a decadent cupid’s bow.  Finally he gave in, letting the images and sounds from his dream take over into waking fantasy.  What it might be like to have those eyes staring up at him, with those lips wrapped around his cock, a handful of those curls as he’d grasp the back of Sherlock’s head encouraging him to go faster.  John’s own pace on his cock quickened, one hand clenching the sheets, his back arching, he pumped harder, faster, imagining Sherlock sucking harder.  His breath came in short, gasping moans.  With a final stroke, John came, hard, Sherlock’s name on his lips, and he prayed the man wasn’t awake to hear him as he lost control.

****

 

* * *

 

**  
**Sherlock closed his eyes, listening to John, wanting desperately to be the one evoking those sounds from him.  Sherlock grabbed the base of his cock, pulling it tight, while stroking and teasing the head with the other hand.  He did his best to time his strokes with the sounds coming from the next room.  He imagined what John must look like.  Did he arch his back or clutch his sheet?  Perhaps both.  Oh God, what he must look like as he loses himself to pure abandonment!  Sherlock caught himself before he let a groan escape his lips.  John mustn't hear him.  Sherlock turned so that he lay on his good side, and moaned into the pillow as he continued drawing out his pleasure.  He silently hoped John would cum soon, because he knew he couldn’t hold out much longer.  As if John read his thoughts, he heard John’s pace quicken and he felt his own balls tighten.   He exploded, moaning John’s name into his pillow as he heard John exclaim his name in the next room.


	9. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evidence mounts, but only one of them can see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your patience. It's coming along and I've already got the beginnings of the next chapter started. 
> 
> As always, many thanks to my beta, oldamongdreams, and my doc sitter, KrisKenshin.

John rubbed the back of his neck as he walked down the hallway the next morning.  He’d hoped that the dream was a one time thing, brought on by the jumbled emotions of the last couple of days.  Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself, but he wasn’t gay.  He wasn’t.  A niggling thought crept in before he could stop it, _Are you sure_?  Of course he was.   _Then what was that all about?_  Before he could rebut his stubborn brain, he turned the corner of the living area to find the object of his dreams on the couch, stretched out like a cat in the sun, still in his comfy pajamas.  And there went the butterflies in his belly again.   _Go on and keep telling yourself, not gay._  Shut it.

****

“Coffee, please, John.”  Sherlock said looking up at John.

****

“You were awake before me, why didn’t you make it?”  John countered, feeling slightly off balance at the sameness and not so sameness of everything.  

****

“You cook, I clean up.  I thought we’d established that now.”  Sherlock smirked up at his doctor.  

****

John sighed and headed into the kitchen.  The old Sherlock was rearing his head again. Thank God.  This might mean his nights and masturbatory fantasies might return to normal then.  He returned from the kitchen with coffee and toast.  “Drink, eat, and don’t argue with me.”  

****

Sherlock sighed as he sat up.  He honestly didn’t mind John taking care of him, but this insistence of eating every meal was starting to wear a bit thin. The one advantage to this insistence on routine eating was that John remembered how he took his coffee.  The thought that John still remembered such a small detail made him smile.

****

He watched John as they both ate their breakfast.  He noticed how, when John would glance his way, his ears would turn a shade of pink.  Sherlock would catch John looking at him and John would dash to hide his face in his coffee mug, almost choking on the hot liquid once.  When he asked John how he’d slept, the flustered “Ah, um, good.  Yeah, good...” combined with the clattering coffee mug on the table made Sherlock grin into his own cup.

****

“Well, I’m done.”  John stood up, his mind full of Sherlock, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but there where Sherlock was on display.  “Since you seem to have claimed dish duty, I’m going to...”  He suddenly realized he had nowhere he could go that didn’t feel like retreating.  He couldn’t go for a walk in the strange city and his bedroom still swirled with the memories of last night.  “I’m going to go over the identities Mycroft left for us,” he said sighing.  Sherlock shrugged as he jammed the last bit of toast into his mouth and licked his fingers.  John felt his face grow warm as he watched Sherlock’s long fingers entering his mouth. He blushed a deep red when Sherlock caught his eye and he turned quickly to head to the table, before the blood in his face decided to head south.  

****

John wondered just how much his friend had managed to figure out about last night and his current train of thought before he decided it was probably best not to think about that.  Instead he finally turned his attention to the two identities Mycroft had come up for him and Sherlock.  He began going over their cover story and a sudden explicative escaped his mouth, “FUCK!”  Mycroft, he...“I”m going to fucking kill him!”  He looked up, furious, to find Sherlock actually grinning at him.

****

“I see you found our cover story,” he chuckled.  “I take it he didn’t go over that part with you.”

****

“I should have bashed his face when I had the chance,” John growled.  

****

“What’s wrong with the cover story?  It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation of why two adult men are constantly travelling together.  Does it embarrass you?”  Sherlock looked offended.

****

“No,” John sighed, running his fingers through his hair, “I’m not embarrassed.  Just...Fine, you know, whatever.  It’s a cover and we’ll make it work somehow.”

****

“Don’t worry.  I won’t do anything to besmirch your honor,” Sherlock smirked in John’s direction as he got up to do the dishes.

 

John stared down at the copies of the passports, IDs, and even the wedding certificate in somewhat dismay.  As if the butterflies, dream, and fantasies weren’t bad enough, now they were actually going to have to act like “Arthur” and “Chris”,  a married couple, whenever they ended up leaving the apartment.  That meant holding hands, linked arms, touching, kissing...and there went his brain again.  This time he couldn’t control where it went.  The thought of Sherlock’s mouth on his lips quickly changed to thoughts of those lips tracing lines down his neck and over his skin, down, down, and straight to his cock.  John was shocked out of his reverie by the sounds of dishes clattering into the sink.  He looked down, realizing there was a tightness in his pants that hadn’t been there before.  John gulped, trying hard to squash the thoughts, and get his libedo under control before Sherlock noticed.  He looked up to check, but Sherlock appeared to be absorbed in doing the dishes.  He stood up and walked down the hallway, clearing his throat.  “I’m off to take a shower, ‘Lock.”  He didn’t see the knowing grin on Sherlock’s face as he headed off to take a much needed cold shower.

 

* * *

 

**  
**Sherlock mulled the night and following morning's events over after he finished the dishes, listening to John take his cooler-than-normal shower.   The evidence was there.  John was sexually attracted to him. Overhearing him last night combined with his reactions to Sherlock this morning confirmed that deduction.  But it was obvious John still wasn’t ready to accept that about himself.  What was more confusing for Sherlock, was how John felt about him.  He knew John cared about him but was battling with his emotions. His question was, why?  Why couldn’t John accept that his emotions ran deeper than just friendship?  Surely they did.  It was obvious, at least to Sherlock.  He fought with himself over how best to proceed.  He considered coming right out and confronting the issue, telling John how he felt and that he knew John felt the same.  But John had never been one to like being told how “he” felt.  Or, he could continue teasing, offering John glimpses, tantalizing little peeks of skin and lips until John finally realized.  But he didn’t want to wait.  Patience was not a virtue Sherlock possessed if it didn’t pertain to an experiment.  If he pushed too hard or John figured out what he was doing before John actually realized his own feelings, it could potentially ruin everything.  He just didn’t know which was the best choice.  And,if there was one thing Sherlock couldn’t stand it was not knowing what to do, but for once in his life he was well and truly lost.


	10. Days and Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does it mean when you've been one thing for so long, but now you're not so sure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short chapter is all about John.   
> I apologize for any grammar, punctuation, and tense mistakes. It hasn't been betaed, but should be by next week. I just wanted to go ahead and get it posted for all of you.   
> As always, many thanks to my doc sitter, KrisKenshin.

During the day John would do his best to stay busy so that he didn’t have to concentrate on the thoughts and feelings he was having around Sherlock.  He and Sherlock would chat about the news, or make fun of the crap on the telly or ramble on about what had happened during their time apart.  They never dug too deep or scratched at the raw emotional wounds.  It was mostly about what sort of disguises Sherlock had used and what parts of the world he had travelled or, for John, how the homeless network and his family were doing. In doing so they were skirting the sensitive areas, but still including each other in their past lives. At some point during the day, Sherlock would pick up his violin to play.  John couldn’t help but stare in those moments when Sherlock was lost in the music, warmth and affection flowing through him.  And of course “old” Sherlock would still pop up, complaining of being bored or demanding John make tea or coffee, causing John to roll his eyes and smile inwardly.  All in all, it felt very domestic and nice.

****

John continued to perform his doctor duties taking care of Sherlock, including helping him bathe.  He tried not to stare or think too much into his reactions during those times.  He’d concentrate extra hard on not becoming aroused and mostly succeeded.  He also avoided looking directly at Sherlock’s crotch, even when covered in pants, he didn’t need to let his mind or eyes wander there.  He would clean and redress the wounds, check Sherlock’s ribs, making sure they were healing properly, and so far so good.  Sherlock was slowly getting his range of motion back, thanks to the breathing exercises and violin playing.  Soon he wouldn’t need John’s help bathing.  He tried not to think about that, because it always brought with it a throat-tightening moment of sadness, knowing he wouldn’t have those intimate moments with Sherlock anymore.

****

But at night, when he’d lay there alone in his bed with his thoughts, his mind began to wander and he’d have to confront the feelings and emotions he was now dealing with.  This was all new to him.  He wasn’t attracted to men, never had been.  Sure, he’d experimented in his Army days.  It was the secret that wasn’t a secret about enlisted men.  When deployed and need takes over, you turn a blind eye to who it is getting you off or vice versa.  It was something you did for your combat buddies.  But this was different.  Even though, technically, he was “deployed” this didn’t feel like those dark fumbles in the night.  There was emotion, affection, lust, and longing attached to these emotions.  He couldn’t deny that.  But why?  What was going on?  He wasn’t gay.  He knew that.  He hadn’t, didn’t feel any attraction to other men, just Sherlock.  God, he couldn’t understand why this was so confusing.  It shouldn’t be.  He was too old to be going through an identity crisis.

****

Lust and longing aside, the emotions John were feeling had their own sort of rawness to them.  He’d loved Sherlock as a friend, even before he jumped.  It wasn’t something he was afraid to admit.  But these feelings, were different.  There were times when Sherlock would catch John looking at him, and he’d feel the tips of his ear and back of his neck grow warm.  A smile would cause that funny fluttering in his stomach that he had been absolutely sure weren’t butterflies, but maybe now, he wasn’t so sure. Stronger, more intense emotions would bubble to the surface.  He wanted to take Sherlock and wrap him in his arms and keep the whole world at bay, because he could see how haunted his eyes were, even when he smiled.  What would have happened if he hadn’t figured out what Sherlock had done?  Would Sherlock have survived on his own until the end?  Based on what he’d seen that first night, probably not.  And that terrified him to the core. These thoughts would creep up on him unbidden and he’d have to take a deep breath to calm himself.

****

But, he was fairly certain Sherlock wouldn’t take kindly to these jumbled thoughts and confusion, to say nothing of the emotional flip-flops and butterflies John had going on.  Those sorts of things were distractions, and that was the last thing they needed right now.  Even though Sherlock was...more human, more vulnerable than he had been almost three years ago, he was still Sherlock.  John was fairly certain he only saw him as a close friend.  John knew he was one of the three most important people in Sherlock’s life.  In fact, it was likely he was THE most important person.  That wasn’t him being cocky or arrogant, those were the facts.  And the facts had always been, Sherlock was married to his work, Sherlock didn’t have emotional connections like “normal” people, Sherlock believed that “caring was not an advantage” and “sentiment was a defect”.

**  
**As a result of those things he knew about Sherlock, his brain would inevitably decide that, for the night, he needed to be realistic.   Because what use was it, if he realized he was in love with Sherlock and Sherlock didn’t feel the same?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes "caring was not an advantage" and "sentiment was a defect" are intentionally not word for word from the series. This is John paraphrasing in his thoughts.


	11. A Promise Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promise is kept, a stranger appears, and a confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay. This chapter gave me fits. I don't want to spoil anything so read on...
> 
> As always many thanks to my doc sitter, KrisKenshin and my beta, oldamongdreams.

Sherlock paced the apartment.  All this sitting around was getting tedious and boring.  They couldn’t even go to the store!  If they needed anything they’d have to call the number on that little card and deliveries were made to their apartment.  Surely the neighbors were even getting suspicious about not seeing anyone coming or going from the place.  And now they were out of milk.  John was not going to be pleased by this when he woke up.  Sherlock took a couple of deep breaths, barely feeling any pain in his ribs.  He’d been following John’s instructions to do the breathing exercises, eating what he was told to, and sleeping.  Not as much as John would have liked, but he’d complied and humored his doctor.  He was still trying to prove to John what he meant to him without pushing John too far too fast.  But it was becoming harder and harder for him to not say anything.  Before, he would have said something, but now he didn’t want to risk ruining the relationship they had.  Sherlock shook his head, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.  He needed to get out of this apartment.  He was going to go mad if he didn’t, or blurt out how he felt and how frustrated he was with John for not realizing he felt the same for Sherlock.  Well, going out to get the milk presented the perfect opportunity.

 

Sherlock walked quietly back into his room and started going through his clothes, putting together an inconspicuous disguise.  He was fairly certain he wouldn’t be recognized.  It had been weeks since he’d last been seen in Toronto, but he still had to be careful.  His hair was shorter, back to it’s London length thanks to the haircut he’d practically begged John to give him, so he didn’t have to worry about that.  He continued to rummage through the drawers.  Once he had everything he needed, he stripped down to his boxers and pulled his disguise together.  It was nothing more than a plain blue t-shirt that he normally wore with his pajama bottoms, a pair of dark jeans, some trainers, sunglasses, and an all weather jacket.  He gave himself a onceover in the mirror, frowning.  He removed his sunglasses and relaxed his features, adding a bit of a slouch to his otherwise upright posture.  He grinned at himself in the mirror, that was better.  He pocketed the sunglasses for when he’d head outside and slipped on one of  the gold bands Mycroft had provided.  Now he had one last thing to do.

 

Sherlock scribbled out a quick note to John, letting him know where he was going, why, and that he promised not to be gone longer than it took to get the milk.  He thought that surely John would understand the need to get out of the damnable apartment.  Cabin fever was settling in on both of them.  He quietly snuck into the sleeping man’s room and marveled for a moment at how deep John’s trust in him must be.  The fact that John slept through Sherlock removing the gun from it’s place on the nightstand (next to the lube Sherlock noted with a smirk) and leaving the note in it’s place showed just how used to the sounds Sherlock made John was.  He paused to watch the the peaceful rise and fall of John’s bare chest and smiled.  Then he tiptoed quietly out of John’s room.  With any luck he’d be back before John woke up and he could tell him face to face how there wasn’t any danger in a quick little trip out.   He slid the gun into the waistband of his jeans, under the jacket, inhaling sharply at the cold metal on his back, and stepped out the front door of the apartment locking it behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

John woke up with a start.  Something felt very wrong about the apartment.  He took a minute to catch his breath and listen closely.  Someone was in the apartment and it didn’t sound like Sherlock.  Immediate thoughts of kidnappers or worse ran through John’s head.  He reached on the nightstand for the gun but it wasn’t there.  He looked over to find a piece of paper in its place. Shit!  He grabbed it, noticing Sherlock’s handwriting.  He swore under his breath as he quickly read the note.  Of all the times for the man to take a notion in his head.  

 

John silently got out of the bed, not bothering to put a shirt on, and listened at his door.  He could hear a male voice mumbling quietly, apparently to himself.  Not a kidnapper then, they were more professional than this.  This intruder was too noisey.  As if to prove that point, there was a loud thud and curse as the man must have stubbed his toe or dropped something.  John sighed.  A common burglar.  At least that was all this was.  And dammit, they hadn’t had a chance to get new mobiles yet, so the only phone was the one in the living area.  He looked quickly around his room looking for an impromptu weapon, but found nothing.  

 

John opened the door and quietly crept down the hallway.  He stopped when he got to the opening of the living area.  He peeked around the corner only to come face to face with the startled burglar. John quickly shoved the man back towards the center of the room.  He opened his mouth to tell the man to leave or sit, he wasn’t sure which, when the man charged him full force, knocking the wind out of John as he was rammed against the wall.  The man managed to land a single blow to John’s face before John fought back.  He blocked the next punch and landed one of his own in the man’s gut.  Before he could be effectively pinned against the wall, he kicked the man back and ran at him, knocking over the coffee table with a loud crash.  The next few moments passed by in a blur as John continued to gain the upper hand on the inept thug.  But he stumbled over the chair and the man managed to pin him face first against the wall.  It was then that a loud shot rang out and the plaster next to them exploded, covering their faces in dust.

 

“Let him go, or the next one will be aimed at your head,” came the deep, terrifying voice that belonged to Sherlock.  

 

The man jerked around and made to charge at Sherlock, but not before John managed to turn around himself,  tackle the man to the ground, and knock him out with a swift blow to the back of the head.  He checked the man’s pulse before standing up and brushing himself off.  The door slammed shut and Sherlock was there beside him in two quick steps of his long legs.

 

Sherlock had heard the crash from down the hallway.  He dropped the milk and ran down the hall, yanking the door open in time to see John stumble and be pinned against the wall by his attacker.  Sherlock’s heart dropped as his worst fears appeared to be manifesting in front of his very eyes.  He yanked the gun out and fired his warning shot.  He was preparing to shoot the man who started to charge at him, but John was fast, much faster than Sherlock anticipated.  And once again, Sherlock felt a pang of guilt for underestimating the man.  He slammed the door shut and rushed over to John, unable to keep his hands off of the shorter man. Sherlock reached out, fingers furtively tracking the red welts blooming into bruises on John’s torso, working his way up to John’s face. John tried to swat his hands away with a mumbled, “I’m fine” but Sherlock ignored him.  Sherlock cupped John’s face, following it’s lines with his thumb.  Gingerly he traced the eye and cheek that were beginning to swell.  He saw John’s eyes widen in recognition of what they saw reflected in Sherlock’s own.   There was no mistaking what Sherlock saw in John’s eyes.  John Watson had finally realized he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

 

John couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  Sherlock’s masks had dropped the instant the burglar had been subdued.  There was no mistaking the emotions that were rolling off of Sherlock. Fear, anger, concern, John wasn’t surprised to see those.  But when Sherlock touched his face with such care and tenderness, a tiny spark of hope lit up in his chest.  When he looked into Sherlock’s eyes that spark flared brighter.  He saw his own feelings for Sherlock reflected on the man’s face.  He gulped and broke eye contact first.

  
“Sherlock...” But John didn’t get the rest of the words out.  Sherlock leaned in, one hand still cupping John’s face, and kissed him.  The feel of Sherlock’s lips on his own sent a shock through his system.  He couldn’t believe this was happening.  He’d fantasized about it, but fantasy couldn’t come close to this.  The heady feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his, a needy push against his own, seeking, questioning.  John closed his eyes, returning the pressure.  John brought his hands up, lightly resting them against Sherlock’s cheeks, he deepened the kiss.  He felt Sherlock sucking at his lower lip, a hint of teeth ghosted across it.  John gasped and the kiss took on a more desperate, wanton feeling.  Sherlock claimed his mouth with abandon. John groaned, his hands fell to Sherlock’s hips, pulling him forward.  The noise that escapes Sherlock’s mouth as their hips made contact was indecent.  Unfortunately, it was followed by a pounding on the door of the apartment.

 

“Shit!” Sherlock cursed under his breath.  He looked down at John’s flush cheeks and the beginning of an erection under his pajama bottoms and again cursed the person on the other side of the door.  Breathing hard, Sherlock composed himself.  “You might want to take a seat and be prepared to be Arthur if necessary.”  He tossed John the other gold ring from his pocket, waited until the ring was on, and John was seated before answering the door.  Sherlock looked through the eyehole and sighed.  Thankfully it was two of Mycroft’s lackeys and not the police.

 

Sherlock yanked the door open glaring at them and pointed at the still unconscious burglar on the floor.  “Get him out of here and make sure he doesn’t talk to anyone about what happened here.  IF you can make sure of that, I may forgo telling my brother how incompetent you were in allowing a simple burglar to break in.”

 

“Sherlock...” John’s voice was strangely dark from behind him.

 

“Just take him and go.”  Sherlock said sharply.  The two men lifted the burglar between them and were out the door without a word.  Sherlock turned back around to John.

  
“Now, where were we?” he purred, but stopped in mid stride.  John’s face was anything but welcoming.  

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I know. This is slightly OOC for Sherlock. I fought with the characters in my head, hence the title for the series. I promise he's still the same Sherlock, he hasn't lost his edge. Stay tuned. I'll be updating at least once a week, if not twice. As always, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome.
> 
> Now with cover art by the lovely people at the Sherlock Committee for tumblr-con:  
> 


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